


Sharing

by immortalityinculture



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, post-reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalityinculture/pseuds/immortalityinculture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drabble. Inside the head of a dying man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing

There is nothing to be done.

I am going to die. It is no one’s fault but my own.

It was always my fault.

I always liked when it was my fault, because then it was no one else’s fault and the self-loathing could be all mine and I wouldn’t have to share it. I hate sharing.

He made me share it and I didn’t even ask him to.

He made me share it every single time he looked at me, as if he was looking straight through me to the soul I used to be convinced didn’t exist. He made me share everything when I didn’t want to.

I hated him and then I loved him.

He was angry a lot. When I tried not to let him in. I didn’t understand it at first. Why would he want to feel what I feel? No one should have to feel what I feel except me. Perhaps not even me. It isn’t my choice, but it was his, and he made it. I didn’t understand it at first.

He was angry at me today, especially. I wasn’t sharing. I tried to explain to him that I didn’t have time for it, that I hate sharing, that I didn’t want him to feel what I feel. I tried to explain it to him a thousand different ways but he wouldn’t listen, or he didn’t care, or both. I tried to explain that I want to protect him, but he said he didn’t want to be protected. He never did and never asked. He lost me once and he would not lose me again for anything. I didn’t understand.

I understand now, but it’s too late. I didn’t let him in, I ran off on my own, and now there is nothing to be done. I am going to die. And it’s my fault.

Once, a while ago, we talked of miracles. Well. He talked, I listened. It was most bizarre. He asked me for a miracle, as if I could be the one to give it to him. I can’t, I know I can’t, because I was never the miracle. It was him. I don’t know if he’ll ever understand that.

It doesn’t matter now.

This is so strange. I don’t feel cold at all. It’s disappointing, really. I should really feel cold. Don’t people who are dying always complain of feeling cold? 

And I haven’t lost my sight. Nothing is black, just…fuzzy. This is all so plebeian. 

If he were here now, he’d probably laugh at me. Complaining till the end. Complaining with my last ounce of life. I find it fitting I was shot in the chest. I always thought the head was my most important asset, but he showed me, quite alarmingly, that I was very, very wrong. It was always my heart.

My hearing is muffled. It’s really quite irritating. There is no sickening silence as there should be, none at all. In fact, there is a lot of sound. I don’t know what it is, but I hope it ends soon because it is horrid.

It’s my fault. I never told him while I had the chance, and now I can’t, and it is no one’s fault but my own. I have the strangest urge to cry, but I don’t think I have enough breath. Besides, if I did, I wouldn’t waste it with tears. I’d tell him.

I hope I can tell him someday, perhaps when we meet again.

Which is, of course, ridiculous. I don’t believe in afterlife. 

Still, it’s a comforting thought.

Ah, there we go. 

Silence.

*

*

*

*

*

*

_“Sherlock?”_

I don’t believe in afterlife, but I have learned to believe in miracles.


End file.
